Blithe Visitor
On my scant bed thin covers
camouflage the size of your space.
Is there a quirk in gravity
that wills your form to be here?
It shouldn't have rained
on your funeral; it’s cliche to drain
a new grave's mud along the berm
and across the road.
If the sun had shown its spots,
excited a wind to scour leaves
and dust on black suits,
the scene would have been pure art.
I wake and remember your touch,
find you in your place,
but refrain from reaching out
knowing it is not you.
-- James D. Corner